


know that my train could take you home

by SugarFey



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Canon Polyamory For The Win, F/F, F/M, Multi, OT6, PolyAm Belter Fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29239287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: She learns about her new crew through fragments of conversation and encounters. How Josep had wanted to study agricultural science on Ganymede but could not afford the fees charged by Earth-owned colleges. That Serge often spends hours on the bridge alone, watching the stars on his monitor while others sleep. How Michio’s pixie face hides a wicked sense of humour. That Bertold lost two brothers on Eros.Camina Drummer begins a new life.
Relationships: Camina Drummer/Oksana Busch, Camina Drummer/Various
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	know that my train could take you home

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic on the day the first episodes of Season 5 dropped and I fell instantly in love with the PolyAm Belter Fam. Needless to say, there are SPOILERS AHEAD, though mainly for the first three episodes of the season.
> 
> This fic is unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own. My beta has yet to catch up on the new season so I didn't want to spoil anything for her. ;)
> 
> Warnings: some mild references to past canon trauma.

The problem with severing ties with not one, but two factions of the OPA is that it leaves Camina Drummer’s contact list somewhat small.

She rented a hotel room on Hygea, treated herself to some upmarket scotch because why the fuck not, and spent a week feeling sorry for herself. She emerged from the fog of self-pity with a sore head and sorer knuckles, finally face to face with the reality that she is, in effect, unemployed.

Which is why she now finds herself sitting on a barstool, staring at the bottom of a glass in a makeshift dive bar, buying a drink for one of the few people whose bridge she has not yet burnt.

Oksana Busch accepts the shot of vodka from the barkeep with a toast and downs the lot before she turns to face Drummer. She is as beautiful as Drummer remembers; with scattered streaks of sliver glittering in her black hair and a few lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Age has been kind to Oksana. She wonders if she can say the same for herself.

Oksana gestures a greeting. “Camina. It’s been too long.”

“It has,” Drummer acknowledges. She has never been the best at maintaining off-duty friendships and Oksana’s ship rarely puts in to Tycho for resupply or contracts. Her crew tend to prefer the less high profile Belter stations such as Pallas or Hygea. “How’s the family?”

Oksana lifts her hand in a shrug. “Doing okay. Was hard, for a while.”

The line of Oksana’s shoulders is tight with tension, and Drummer makes a conscious effort to soften her voice when she speaks again. “I heard about Inez. I’m sorry.”

The creases at Oksana’s mouth deepen as she bends over the bar, but Drummer still catches the way Oksana’s eyes grow suspiciously bright at the mention of her late wife. “It’s been over a year and sometimes I still expect to see her at the helm,” she murmurs, turning the glass in her hands.

Guilt nudges at Drummer’s chest; an all-too-common companion these days. Another friend gone. She had heard about Inez’ recycling ceremony on Ceres. Oksana had issued an open invitation to those who knew her well, but Drummer had been too caught up in her own shit on Medina. “She was a good manager, back on the docks. A good captain also. I always knew I could go to her when some piece of _felota_ gave me shit.”

Oksana chuckles, raising her glass in Drummer’s direction. “You gave plenty of shit yourself. The scrawniest kid on the docks, and you had to start fights with the meanest _beltalowda_ you could find. I was amazed you survived.”

Drummer lifts her own glass and taps it against Oksana’s with an audible clink. “Survival is what we do.”

The corner of Oksana’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Indeed it is.”

They hold their glasses higher in a silent salute to Inez’s memory. It is a small moment, probably smaller than Inez deserves, but it appears to be enough to break the ice.

Oksana drains her glass and gestures to the bartender for another. “When I saw your message I thought you were hacked. Did you really quit Johnson’s faction?”

The next vodka shot goes down a bit too quickly and Drummer winces at the sting, barely suppressing a highly undignified cough. “I may have punched him in the face.”

Oksana’s brows arch in something like approval. “Ah. You always had a gift for subtlety.”

The glint in her eye is an echo of the old Oksana; the young woman Drummer had worshipped when she was eighteen and still flushed with the gawky awkwardness of youth. Before she followed Anderson Dawes onto an OPA ship and lost any chance to be young.

They trade stories back and forth, catching up on years’ worth of trials and triumphs. Oksana shares the names of her family with a soft fondness which reminds Drummer too much of the look in Naomi’s eyes, back when they would share drinks in her office as they worked on the _Behemoth._

Drummer clears her throat, landing gratefully on a change of subject. “I’m looking for a new crew. Salvage, preferably.”

Oksana accepts a new drink, seeming to contemplate something. “Would you consider shipping out with us?”

The question comes as a surprise. “With your family?”

“Mhmm.” Oksana sips at her glass, relishing the alcohol with a small sigh. “Sohiro keeps giving us shit in this sector. Besides, I have no interest in being captain for the rest of my days. I’m better as the XO. The others, they need guidance. Leadership. Together, we could give them that.”

Drummer gives her a calculating look. “You expect me to fill Inez’ shoes?”

Oksana tilts her head, a placating gesture. “I would expect you to be the captain. As for the rest, it’s up to you.” She sets the glass down, turning to Drummer with a soft smile. “We could be good for each other, Camina. We were once.”

The overhead lights reflect in Oksana’s eyes, bringing to mind their young, ragged days on the Ceres docks, when Drummer clung to Oksana and Inez like a lifeline.

Against her better judgement, Drummer feels the knot in her belly start to loosen. “I’ll help you deal with Sohiro. After that, we see.”

* * *

The crew of the _Dewalt_ lack the kind of rigid command structure Fred and Dawes have been encouraging of late. Something about a formal chain of command adding legitimacy to the Belt’s attempt at a navy. The _Dewalt_ crew have loosely defined roles aboard the ship and are happy to call Drummer their captain, but with the express understanding that they have no qualms on calling out bullshit if they see it. She has to admit; the change is refreshing.

At the end of the first shift, the crew all gather around the table in the mess while Bertold slides a tray of dumplings out of the warmer. Drummer settles for the spare seat on the bench next to Oksana and little Michio offers her a bottle of hot sauce with a wink. “Here. Bertold may be a great mechanic, but he has the tastebuds of a Martian _pampaw_.”

Bertold clips the trays into the centre of the table with a pout. “ _Sabaka._ You insult my cooking, Michio?”

Michio pecks him on the temple. “You have other talents.” She grins and Bertold gives her a playful shove as he sits down. The movement sends Michio sideways and she bumps against Drummer’s shoulder, mouthing an apology with a giggle.

Across the table, Serge taps his hand terminal and music begins thrumming from the speakers built into the wall. It’s a familiar tune, popular a few years ago among the nightclubs of Ceres and Tycho. A scratchy, moody melody weaving in and out from a thumping beat, the kind you feel deep in your chest. Josep raises his fork in approval and Michio bobs her head along. Drummer drops her gaze down to her tray, focuses on the sticky, glutinous dumplings on the plate.

She takes one bite, chews, and grabs the bottle of hot sauce.

Beside her, Michio grins. “Told you.”

Drummer grunts in response as she shakes the bottle over her food. When she finishes, Oksana reaches across to take the sauce from her. Their hands brush and the corner of Oksana’s mouth tilts upwards. Drummer pulls her arm away, lets her free hand rest in her lap.

The sauce is an oily explosion of spice on her tongue. It’s generic stuff, the kind sitting in every rockhopper’s supply locker. One taste is enough to take her back to her teenage days on Ceres, eating noodles from the cheapest eateries and trying to slather on enough sauce to disguise the dull, processed flavour. She takes a sip from the liquid bulb set in front of her, already knowing what it will be. Water flavoured with lemon and mineral supplements. Classic long haul rations. Scurvy is the bane of ships in the Belt just as it was on the oceans of old.

She had been spoiled on Tycho and Medina. An abundant supply of fresh greens imported from Ganymede and lab grown meat whenever she wanted. Fred had once even invited her to a fish dinner in one of Tycho’s fanciest restaurants, the kind patronised almost exclusively by Inner investors, but the food there had not been to her taste and she left regretting the waste of credits.

Now her lips have the pleasant burn of concentrated chilli and the laughter and chatter around her blends with the music in a combination so familiar it aches.

After a couple of hours, the crew start drifting towards the racks. Bertold draws a giggling Michio to one of the bunks and Serge and Josep pair off to another, arms looped around each other’s waists. Oksana places a gentle hand on Drummer’s wrist, motioning in the direction of the third bunk. “No expectation. Just sleep, if you like.”

Drummer removes Oksana’s hand with a firm shake of her head. “Not now.”

Oksana shrugs. “Okay. There’s a rack on the other side of the galley, if you want some privacy.”

Drummer signs a quick ‘thank you,’ accepting the offer for the generous gesture it is. Privacy is a rare commodity aboard any rockhopper ship. Even crews who are not bonded as closely as this tend to share sleeping arrangements.

The bunk across the galley is narrower than the others; more of a glorified shelf. Drummer strips down to her underwear and singlet and draws the plastic curtain across, shutting off the blinking lights and soft voices of the crew. Her crew, now. Whatever that means.

A high, breathy moan echoes through the galley, followed by a good-natured “ _pashang,_ Michio, we’re trying to sleep here!” Serge, probably. A few teasing insults are tossed back and forth until Oksana’s voice cuts over them, telling them all to shut up.

Drummer arranges the pillow beneath her head and slowly, the gentle laughter gives way to the stillness of space.

* * *

She invites Michio into her bunk first. As sex goes, it’s good enough; Michio is young and enthusiastic and she does not expect to hang around after. A few weeks later, Josep leans in close to her after dinner, and she thinks, _why not?_ He is a beautiful man and looks up at her with something like worship as she rides him. He falls asleep after they fuck and Drummer strokes his cheek before she leaves.

Oksana glances at them both when they enter the bridge for the next shift. A look passes between Oksana and Josep which Drummer does not attempt to understand, but Oksana nods and gives them a small smile.

It’s at the end of a long shift, with only the faintest slosh of whiskey in her belly, that Drummer finally places her hand on Oksana’s knee, waits for a gesture of consent, and presses her lips to Oksana’s soft mouth.

“You sure?” Oksana breathes as they break apart.

Drummer rests her hand on the back of Oksana’s neck, draws her in. “Just get into the fucking bunk.”

Oksana laughs, a low, delighted sound; then her fingers are hooking into Drummer’s belt loops, and there is no more waiting.

When they crashed together years ago, they were young and half starved, drunk and high on cheap booze and cheaper pixie dust. Now their bodies are worn, patterned with the scars mapping out their histories.

They trace these scars now, an unspoken learning of each other’s story, of the people they have been since life pulled them apart and threw them back together. Oksana has a jagged, deep brown line across her thigh and another below her breast. Drummer follows them with her tongue and Oksana sinks her fingers into her hair. Oksana kisses the pale whirl on Drummer’s stomach and trails more kisses over her ribs, hooking Drummer’s leg over her shoulder. Drummer shivers, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out when Oksana’s fingers sink into her folds.

When the fall comes, it rolls through her in a slow boil, leaving her tumbling, spiralling out into a sea of stars.

* * *

She is reaching for the mess of clothes on the floor when Oksana puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Camina. Stay.”

Drummer stops, her arm reaching out in a frozen movement. “I need to go,” she says, slowly. She can picture Oksana’s face behind her, even as she refuses to turn around.

She hears the rustle of sheets, then Oksana is sitting up, resting against Drummer’s back. She feels Oksana’s lips brush over the base of her neck. “No need here,” Oksana murmurs. “Not like your fancy Medina Station. No one here thinks less of you for sharing comfort.”

She sounds so damn fucking sincere. Drummer turns, gives her a kiss. Reaches for her underwear all the same. “I’ll see you later.”

Oksana pulls away, her brows knitted into a slight frown which disappears the moment she realises that Drummer has noticed. “Offer is there. If you want it.”

* * *

She learns about her new crew through fragments of conversation and encounters. How Josep had wanted to study agricultural science on Ganymede but could not afford the fees charged by Earth-owned colleges. That Serge often spends hours on the bridge alone, watching the stars on his monitor while others sleep. How Michio’s pixie face hides a wicked sense of humour. That Bertold lost two brothers on Eros.

They salvage wrecks and chase other vultures away from the pickings. They torpedo Sohiro’s ship and send him packing, celebrating with victory shots of rotgut vodka which burn all the way down. They stop other pirates from spacing their prisoners, and Drummer tells herself that this is enough.

She becomes used to eating meals with the crew, to laughing at their jokes and even telling one or two herself. She spends time navigating the blackness of space with Serge in a companionable silence, works out with Bertold and only arches an eyebrow when she walks in on Michio and Josep engaging in some truly creative zero-g antics in the airlock.

She begins to call herself ‘Camina.’

After another successful salvage, Oksana takes her hand after dinner and leads her toward the racks, and she does not resist.

They lie tangled on the thin mattress afterwards, sweaty and sated, until Drummer reaches out to trace a mole on Oksana’s collarbone. “I loved someone, once. But she didn’t love me.”

Oksana brings Drummer’s knuckles up to her lips, lets them linger. “This doesn’t seem to anger you.”

Drummer traces the edge of Oksana’s mouth, following each line and crease. “It did, once. I see her reasons now.”

“Hmm.” Oksana takes hold of Drummer’s fingers, uncurls them and kisses her palm. “Maybe you could tell me about her sometime.”

Drummer rolls Oksana over onto the mattress, slipping her thigh between her legs and grinding down just enough to make Oksana gasp. “Sometime. Not today.”

She falls asleep with Oksana’s arm draped across her waist, and when Josep comes to their bunk an hour later, she shifts over to give him room.

It feels like it could become home.


End file.
